Something Greater Than Themselves
by DanawannaQueezle
Summary: What happens when the worlds of Bartimaeus, Doctor Who, Skulduggery Pleasant, Lockwood and Co and Sherlock clash together to be part of something greater than themselves? SPOILER FREE.
1. Prologue

**AN: It's my first time writing here, so please be nice! There won't be many spoilers, as it's a descendent-type story with none of the original characters, apart from Sherlock from Sherlock (duh), the Doctor from Doctor Who (obviously) and Skulduggery and China from Skulduggery Pleasant (I think you get it by now.)**

* * *

 **Prologue**

Wind rustled through the room although she were deep, deep underground, pushing and prodding at the flames of the candles that were arranged on the shelves in small clusters of light. It started out as a breeze or a waft of hot, dry air that carried the faint sound of the screams of the dead and dying, but rose to a howling gale that whipped jars off the shelves shattered them against the marble floors. A scent of soggy marshes, not the kind you would want be walking through in any circumstances, filled the room with it's moist and rancid stench. The candles were extinguished as one as if they had been snuffed out by invisible fingers and the wind now nothing short of a hurricane- sent her hat flying off her head as she grasped for it, but couldn't catch it in time as it spun like a flying saucer. It landed in the corner.

A deep laugh rang like church bells around her, bouncing off the walls and chilled her to her core. Smoke from the steaming candles rose up and collected in the air, solidifying into two closed eyelids. She was transfixed by the sight. She stepped closer, tilting her head to comprehend what she was seeing.

'Hi.' The two eyes opened, revealing a pair of electric green irises with no whites, only swirling smoke.

She leapt back, remembering who- and what- she was dealing with.

'Don't worry. It's nothing serious. Nothing compared to the true extent of my power.'

Out of nowhere, the howling gale stopped and died down. She couldn't stop but gasp at the show of power. _No. Don't be distracted. You're here for a reason._

'I ch-charge you,' she stuttered, trying to remember the usual procedure, 't-to answer me truthfully, demon.' She took a deep breath. 'Are you Axryl of Memphis? Otherwise known as Abanon of the Whistling Planes, Ratonhnkaketom-' she stumbled on the name, '- of Plovdiv, Damascia of Olympia, Lucretia of the Roman Republic? Answer me!'

The large eyes looked at her bleakly. 'You already know my name, but it is Axryl.'

'I was only checking. ' She cleared her throat. 'I-I charge you to liberate the Jitter Girls from the holding cells of the Irish Sanctuary and release them into London.'

'Ooh, someone's getting to the point. And why don't you make me bring you a leprechaun while I'm at it. I don't know what you're talking about. Never heard about any _Irish Sanctuary_ or anything like that.' The green eyes narrowed. 'Talking about Ireland, where are we?'

'A-America.'

'America. It's been a long while since I was here last. I thought all of the knowledge of us was destroyed. How did you know how to summon me? Are you a magician or what? You don't look like one.'

'We prefer the word Mage,' she squeaked trying to sound grand, not sounding very grand at all. 'We're not _magicians._ Party tricks aren't part of our repertoire. Don't you know who I am?' she asked, recovering some of her dignity.

'Haven't the foggiest.'

'I am Laira Bloom, the Grand Mage of the Sanctuary of America,' she said firmly. 'And you will fear me.'

There was silence in the room. Not even the candles flickered. If the eyes had eyebrows, they would have raised skeptically. Axryl laughed. 'Is that supposed to be impressive? Because fancy titles aren't going to stop me from frying you like a duck in a frying pan as soon as you step out of that circle.'

Laira bristled. In her world, everyone knew _exactly_ who she was. Who was this- this demon to threaten her? She shook off her fear and sent an Essence Lance crackling at Axryl, who yelped as it hit its right eye. 'You really don't know anything about us?' Laira smiled, growing bolder. She felt confident enough to send another Essence Lance at the demon. Possibly, she had overestimated Axryl. This… thing didn't know anything about her world. It didn't know how dangerous she was and how dangerous it was to oppose her. It probably thought all humans did was frolic through the grass all day, content to be perfectly defenceless. And it was completely at her mercy. 'I guess I've overestimated you, then.'

'That's impossible,' Axryl's gaze hardened. 'We'll meet again. Outside of this summoning circle. Then we'll see who's truly overestimated.'

'If you insist. I'll be looking forwards to it, in fact. But good luck frying me. You have no idea what I'm capable of.' She spoke a quick and fluent Dismissal. The demon's edges blurred as it strained to keep itself in position.

'Wait,' it gasped, and Laira frowned and opened her mouth, ready to speak the second Dismissal. 'Where is this Irish Sanctuary holding cell? How can I get in?'

'Dublin Museum.' She smiled. Time to kill two birds with one stone. 'If people ask your name or you get caught, say that China Sorrows sent you.' Before the demon could protest, she spoke the words of Dismissal sharply for the second time and the demon was pulled away, leaving nothing but the faint smell of marshes.

* * *

 **AN: Thanks for reading! There'll definitely be more chapters and it's really helpful if you can review it.**

 **-Danawanna**


	2. Chapter 1

**AN: Thanks for the views. Please comment and review! More will be coming soon.**

* * *

Sherlock pounded his fist on the desk.

'It doesn't make sense!' he yelled at John.

'What doesn't?' John asked wearily. Pinned on the wall, next to a cluster of bullet holes through the wallpaper, was a series of pictures with a man, a woman and a girl. John didn't see anything special with them. The girl had a short cloud of unusually fiery red hair like a halo on her head. In all the pictures, she had a slightly singed black leather zip- up jacket that flared around her waist and and the man wore a black hat with a matching suit. The woman looked… It was hard to say how she looked. She had a bland face with bland hair and a bland expression. Her nose was flat, but not unusually flat. Her eyes were brown, but not unusually brown. Her hair was brown - but not unusually brown. Her clothes were plain and didn't stick out in a crowd. Her expression was always neutral and nonchalant. If John had seen her again, he doubted he would remember her.

Sherlock's state was starting to get concerning, actually. John couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had slept. Or ate.

'It's like butting heads with a wall,' Sherlock burst out.

'That's pretty accurate, actually.'

They're all the same person, but really, it's just one person wearing different faces!' he continued, jumping up on the coffee table to examine the pictures. 'See!' he pointed at the man with vigour. 'Same cheekbones, top hat, well tailored clothes, same companion! Only different faces. Why does he have different faces?'

'Can you rewind and repeat that last sentence?'

'Look, his collar is turned down, hat clean with no dust. Ironed shirt, it's not even moving with the wind!'

'He's got different faces,' John repeated. 'There's no way it could possibly be-'

'Neat, clean, civilised. The way he holds himself, stiff, straight, important this man is the leader. John, you're being ridiculous here-'

'Oh? I'm the one being ridiculous-'

'-Shut up. You're thinking, and it's annoying. Now the girl, she's not as immaculate. Clothes crumpled, hair like she just woke up from bed.' Sherlock ruffled a hand through his own messy hair with frustration. 'Singed clothes, fire damage. Looks recent. Always wears the same clothes. Well, sometimes. Black jacket seems to be her favorite- wait.' He moved closer to the photo, 'Whenever she wears that same jacket- shirt-pants-boot combination, she looks more ruffled, like she's just come back from a fight. Connected to the singed clothes? Is the jacket made of different material? Bulletproof perhaps?'

'Now, why-' John asked incredulously, but was interrupted. Again.

'The way the sun shines and reflects on it,' Sherlock examined one picture closely, tilting it left and right, 'I would say so.' Flame-retardant also. What a tailor! But why, why would a teenage need a bulletproof jacket? I mean, she looks what? Thirteen?'

Without warning, Sherlock jumped off the table, making John jump.

'Judging from the hair and complexion,' he said, pacing around the room, 'Irish. Not to mention those accents. Enjoy themselves for an hour or so, then leave. Leave no trace. I've tried to get the homeless network to follow them without being too obvious. According to one, they turned around to an empty road. By the time my people turned the corner, no one was there.'

'Sherlock,' John interrupted. 'You've been tracing these people for a week now. Give it up. Why don't you just choose another case.' He flourished the overflowing inbox on Sherlock's phone. 'Your email is overflowing! Just pick one- Look,' he said, throwing the phone to his friend. 'A murder! You love those, don't you? A Visitor floating in a basement!

'BORING.' Sherlock threw the phone back, barely glancing at it. 'All boring. You have no clue how irritating it's been finding decent cases with the Problem around now. You don't SOLVE a ghost, you DESTROY it! The murderers long gone by now! Leave that to the Agencies!'

'Well,' John said, trying to calm his best friend down, 'Maybe we should just take it. Who knows, it might be interesting. We had that Jack the Ripper ghost, didn't we? That one was nasty.'

'Yes John,' Sherlock said impatiently. 'It's not our kind of thing. We had to call Lockwood and Co on that one for help. And I really don't like calling for help.'

'Well you aren't going to solve two tourists!' John insisted. 'Sherlock, you're obviously being delusional right now. Just take a break for now. I've got one right here. You'll like it. It's a good one.'

'Oh, I will, will I?'

'Yes, you will. A Visitor- a boy, an Agent, it looks like- was seen floating in a basement. It's nothing special, but it'll take your mind off things. It's recent too, so the murderer can still be brought to justice.'

Sherlock groaned. 'No. No, no, no.' He hesitated. 'But, maybe, just possibly, I'm over thinking this. I need to revisit it with a fresh mind and fresh nicoti-'

'Fresh what, Sherlock?'

'Nothing,' Sherlock said quickly. 'A fresh mind, yes, that's what I need. So, a dead boy, you say? Recent? Sounds good. But after I solve it, I want to work on this.' He gave John a look. 'Uninterrupted. Deal?'

'Deal.' John said reluctantly. He wasn't happy with it, but anything that would take his friend's mind of the trio was good enough for him. 'When do we leave?'

'Tomorrow.' Sherlock sat on the sofa, calm again and stretched out, steepling his fingers.


End file.
